Hoarding, hiding, and divorcing socks: such are my dryer’s hobbies. (He likely hustles clients for a textile-marriage counselor—or is, perhaps, an instrument of the devil.)

The other possibility, though sad, is more likely:  I’m a sloppy housekeeper.

On ‘laundry ‘days’ (hah— as though I have the discipline to demarcate a wash day) when  struck by the piles overflowing the hamper, after moaning,  I throw the clothes and what all, haphazardly into the machine without the proper ‘sorting’ a better person would manage.

After, I dump the load in the devil’s dryer, where most socks are ravaged, stolen, and sent to hell for my sins.

Until recently, after the lone socks suffered a purgatory in my drawer, I’d stuff them into bags and banish them to the basement to await their trip to Boston’s fiber recycle.

Until . . . in a rare inculcation of Heloise of ‘hints’ fame, a ‘hairband system’ apparition rose from the basement dust.

I bundled my loose socks in an elastic hair band (not wanting to damage their delicate fibers) and let them rest as they awaited the following week’s bounty: matches.

Reader, it works.